


Jett's Scars

by jothtendou



Series: OC Adventures: Jett Paris [1]
Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: Knives, Self-Hatred, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9883778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jothtendou/pseuds/jothtendou
Summary: Jett's got a temper. Mixing it with alcohol, he finds, is not a good idea.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to post up some short original works to keep them all in one place somewhat cohesively.

Jett Paris had no business being at Kildares. The Irish pub was filled with patrons years older than the high school student, but somehow he managed to blend in. He could thank his physical appearance for that. Jett had grown early, towering over both his parents by at least five inches. Both adults wondered where he’d gotten those genes, since the Paris family wasn’t renowned for their staggering height. Jett took what he could, though.

He was only sixteen, but he had the features of a man already. Tall with dark hair and eyes to complement his fair skin. He felt no fear as he showed the bartender his fake ID; he’d never been called out before and he knew that wouldn’t change today.

The bartender handed Jett a beer that Jett deemed too sour as soon as he put his lips to the mug, but still he downed it. He’d come to the pub alone, like he did every other place. The teenager was homeschooled and had no friends beside a small purple haired boy with a lazy demeanor. And even he only got to visit with Jett every few months.

Jett downed his first beer and soon paid for a second despite hating the taste. Whatever. He wasn’t drinking to enjoy himself.

His parents were getting worse every year. Jett’s grades were flawless and each of his tutors praised him for his intelligence, and yet it was never enough.

_He can do better._

_He should be applying himself if he’s truly so smart; get a job._

_I’ll be impressed when he stops coming home with bloody knuckles._

Words cycled endlessly through Jett’s mind as he gulped down the piss colored beverage.

Jett stopped after two drinks. Being buzzed was fine, but being drunk absolutely was not. He’d learned that already. He couldn’t go out by himself if his intention was to get wasted. That always led to bad things.

As Jett left a generous tip for the bartender, he stood from his stool and headed toward the bathroom. The walls were covered in colorful graffiti and grime — a typical public restroom in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Jett read the countless amount of names and numbers and colorful phrases carved out in the wooden stalls as he took a leak, his brain starting to muddle things together.

He washed his hands without checking his reflection, disinterested in what he knew would only be a disappointing image. Jett was average on all accounts aside from his height when it came to physical traits. He had nothing to offer. That was probably why his two gym flings had only lasted twice each. The first time always allowed him the benefit of the doubt, but the second was just as disappointing as the first. There was no reason to keep Jett Paris around.

Sneering at his thoughts, Jett dried off his hands and tossed the crumpled paper towel in the trash. He intended to leave the pub and head home, but all sensible thoughts went out the window as he felt someone slam their shoulder into his own. Upon instinct, like the strike of a viper’s fangs, Jett whipped his head around and glared at the mountain of a man who had bumped into him.

“Watch it you fucking fat ass!” he shouted, anger flaring up and seeping out of his every pore.

The man hadn’t expected that response by his expression. He smirked, walking right up to Jett and getting into his face. Jett could smell the cigar smoke on his breath as he spoke.

“What did you just say to me, pipsqueak?” A ridiculous stab at Jett’s masculinity, but it did wonders for the teenager’s anger.

Jett shoved the man despite being of much smaller body mass. “I said, ‘Watch where you’re fucking going, _fat ass_.’”

It was then that the alcohol proved to be Jett’s demise. His brain was too muddy, too hazy to detect the friends this large man had. The two strangers flanked Jett and grabbed him by both arms to yank behind his back before Jett’s senses even registered their presence.

“Hey, Bruce I don’t want anything breaking in here!” Jett heard the bartender call out from behind him. Jett ignored these words, too busy trying to rip his arms free.

“Don’t worry,” Bruce said, delivering a hard slap to Jett’s cheek. “I’ll take him out back.”

Jett’s obscene shouts went on deaf ears. His anger came to a boiling point, nearly blinding him as his vision went red and hazy. He was insulted, outnumbered, and too buzzed to think logically about the situation. All he could focus on was how mad he was and how much he wanted to cut out this Bruce asshole’s throat.

Once the four men were “out back,” which was just the alley behind the pub, Bruce gestured for his goons to release Jett. This was a mistake on his part. Jett immediately took the skull of the closest man in his grip and slammed it into the brick wall of the building. The man fell to the ground as Jett spun and took a pocketknife from his jeans.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Jett growled.

Both men laughed at his threat, only further enraging Jett. He lunged at Bruce but was caught in the stomach by a hard punch. It knocked the wind out of Jett and as he gasped for breath, he was forced to the ground and pinned under Bruce’s weight. Jett’s grip on his pocketknife was tight, but still it was ripped from his grasp.

“You’re a minor, aren’t you?” Bruce said, pressing the knife’s edge into Jett’s collarbone. “You don’t fight like a man. You fight like a pissed off little kid.” His laughter shook Jett’s chest as he fought for breath. Bruce looked up at his goon, gesturing with the knife. “Watch the door. Don’t let anyone come out here. I’ll deal with this punk and then we’ll take Oliver out of here.”

Jett was still gasping when he felt the heat of the blade carve into his flesh — a diagonal line across the expanse of his chest. He couldn’t even properly gasp in pain, not when he still had no breath in his lungs.

Strips of heat continued for what felt like an endless amount of time. Bruce slashed at him repeatedly, cutting at his chest and biceps and thighs, nowhere immediately visible if Jett were to wear proper clothing.

Eventually Jett was able to breathe again, but he did not feel relieved. He kept his lips pressed shut, refusing to make any sounds of pain. Once satisfied with his work, Bruce got off Jett and clicked the pocketknife closed. He tossed it beside Jett’s head that he promptly kicked with the toe of his boot. White-hot pain shook Jett’s skull, but still he made no noise.

“Don’t let me catch you here again,” Bruce said, and then he was gone.

Jett considered not moving. He could lie there and bleed out, stop his meaningless existence. But that would be too easy for his parents. It would prove them right, that he was just a punk kid who amounted to nothing. No. He wouldn’t die the way they’d already predicted he would.

Moving hurt. Jett sat up and felt like his entire body was on fire. He looked down at his marred flesh, at the cuts littering his body and staining his clothes with blood. In that moment he decided he would never drink alone again, no matter how little it was. He blamed the alcohol for his terrible reaction time, for every single one of the cuts that covered his body. Drinking was lethal for someone like him, someone who attracted dangerous people like a magnet. If he ever drank again, it would only be with someone he trusted.

Jett laughed at the thought, a short, manic sound as he clutched at his throbbing head. Yeah, right. As if he’d ever trust another person with his life. 


End file.
